


Run

by thelittleboffin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All around sadness man, Angst, Car Accident, Character Death, Crying Sherlock Holmes, Death, Doctor John Watson, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sherlock, Ghost John, Heavy Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sad Sherlock, Sadness, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock sees John, Sort Of, Sorta kinda not really happy ending, Suicide Attempt, Vulnerable Sherlock, lots of them - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-01-28 20:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12614632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelittleboffin/pseuds/thelittleboffin
Summary: “Idiot."That voice, His voice, the voice that sang to him in dreams and called out to him in nightmares — the voice that had been his life, that he had wanted to hold onto forever should he have been allowed. He turned, chest bobbing with the desperate need for air, and froze, eyes blankly staring at what couldn’t possibly be real, of what could only be described as a hallucination - right?There He was, in that silly navy cardigan, that checkered black shirt beneath; clad in His favorite jeans and those somewhat pricey brown Oxford’s.Sherlock swallowed, bottom lip blue and quivering, “John?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello cuties. x  
> So I had this idea for a bit and was really eager to write it.  
> A warning ahead of time; HEED THE TAGS.   
> I stress that because this is a very depressing, touchy fic and full of potential triggers.   
> Much much different from Reach My Eyes, mind. 
> 
> As always, I love to read your thoughts.  
> All the best,
> 
> \- Boffin
> 
> (Most likely more tags to be added as story continues and rating may change)

It was all being explained to him. So why couldn't he accept it?

Why was his mind shouting at him, why was he on the floor, when did he move to the floor, why couldn’t he feel his knees, why were his lips numb, why were his cheeks wet, why were his eyes burning? Christ, his entire _body_ was burning, someone had lit a bonfire beneath his skin and now the flames were licking at their bodily prison, eager to burst straight through, eager to destroy their host, eager to put an end to this - to _all_ of this.

Because no, it wasn’t true.

Hell, if it was true, the entirety of his life, every day after this one, would be meaningless — there would be no point anymore. Because what’s living if there’s no one to live for, nothing to live for — not even the smallest spec, not even the dust building in that one corner of 221B _He_ could never reach, not even the prim and pristine violin tucked away in its velvet case, not Ms. Hudson, or Molly Hooper, or Lestrade, none of them, nothing, nothing.

 _Nothing_. 

Everything hurt — why did everything _hurt_? His legs felt like weights, his arms spaghetti; his fingers were trembling, his body shuddering, shaking, shivering — everything was off. Nothing was right, everything was wrong, false, incorrect, amiss, awry, _bad_. No word seemed good enough, neither word worked, nothing worked, nothing.

 _Nothing_. 

His _body_ wasn’t even working. Where was he?

221B. Phone smashed to bits next to him on the wooden panels of the flat’s floor. But why was he here, why hadn’t he been with _Him_? Why hadn’t he been sitting right there, beside Him; why hadn’t they been chatting about a case or Anderson’s stupidity, why hadn’t Sherlock been there?

Why hadn’t He taken the _Tube_?

 

 

It had started with the phone call, and then, after what felt like years, a door was opening, arms were around his, lifting him, lying him down, manhandling him at the utmost extreme. He was Sherlock Holmes — he didn’t let himself be _manhandled_. So why wasn’t he doing anything? Why wasn’t he moving? Why wasn’t he fighting this? Why wasn’t he fighting it _all;_ the idiotic woman who had broken the news to him through the phone, the hands on his shoulders, the voices shrieking at him to snap out of it, the impatient, tinged with worry, tone of — was that _Mycroft_?

He opened his eyes. When had he closed them?

 

“— need you to look at —“

“— Sherlock, please —“

 

His ears felt as though they were drowning, numb and ineffective, his heart — guess he did have one after all — thumping mindlessly loud against everything; against his ribcage, against his temples, behind his eyes, the back of his head. 

 

“— fucking hell —“

_Lestrade?_

 

He blinked but his vision remained blurred. Why couldn’t he _see_? 

 

“ — breathe for me Sher —“

 

He breathed. Hands on the back of his neck, a hand in his hair, a hand rubbing at his shoulder blades, a voice whispering soft, “it’ll be okay,”’s and “you’re alright,”’s in his hardly reliable ears. They weren’t comforting — they burned, they ached, they stung. They singed his skin, they made it boil. Because who the fuck were they to say it would be okay? It wouldn’t be. Nothing about this was okay, nothing.

 _Nothing_. 

Nothing. 

He had _nothing_. 

 

Another two hours passed before he realized the reason for his sudden blindness was simply because he hadn’t been able to cease his tears.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shards all thrown about, like a devastatingly, unfixable mosaic.

> _I'll sing it one last time for you -_

 

“Of course, none of this was planned,” Mycroft sighed, holding so tightly to his black umbrella his knuckles had begun to turn white, “therefore there’s not much to do in terms of his belongings.” 

Sherlock was sat in his black chair, the leather creaking beneath him far louder than he remembered; every fidget, every movement, every tremble, shiver, and shake setting it off as though it were some mental alarm, itching at the back of Sherlock’s skull, finding another way to irritate him, to annoy. He gripped the violin in his arms tighter and blankly plucked at the E string, hardly managing to face his brother head on, eyes frantically dashing about the entirety of 221B in an attempt to help him forget, help him focus on something else, _anything_ else. 

“I had presumed you’d be quite eager to keep his things,” the other man stated, so calm, so collected, so unaffected it drove Sherlock mad. 

“You’ll not touch anything,” Sherlock uttered, gaze falling still on the ground before him, on the shiny black texture of his shoes, on the chaffed wood, on the panels _He_ had once walked across. 

 

Mycroft remained silent, standing near the window, pointedly staring directly at Sherlock’s hunched position in his chair, back arched, the grip his hand had on the neck of his violin beginning to fall limp. He watched his little brother and for once in his life fell completely rattled. He didn't know what to do - he always knew what to do, he always had a plan of action, a way out, a spur of the moment conjuring of his brightest ideas and yet here he was: observing his brother in the utmost pain and having no clue how to put an end to it. 

“We’ll need to talk about you, of course,” He began, meandering further into the living room and standing beside that specific red armchair, tattered, old and used but a sacred object in the eyes of his younger brother. 

“What about me?” Sherlock asked, a single brow arched — because why did he matter? Why did anything about him matter? This wasn’t about him, this was about —

“You’re known to make stupid decisions when,” Mycroft sniffed, “emotionally compromised.”

 

Emotionally compromised. Emotionally _compromised_? 

 

Was that it? Was that all _He_ deserved to get in response to what had happened? He was worth far more than, ‘emotionally compromised.’ No — there were no words to describe the reaction He deserved. No words. Nothing.

 _Nothing_. 

 

“Get out.” 

 

And finally Sherlock met his older brother’s eyes, and hoped that somehow he had managed to summon enough pure rage to scare off the man of whom had just insulted his only real reason to live, his only real reason to be Sherlock Holmes. 

“Sherlock, we need to talk about this,” Mycroft pushed with a scowl, and placed both his hands on the back of _that_ chair, of _His_ chair — _his_. 

Within an instant, he was a fury on his feet. It all happened within a mere few seconds; things began crashing, there was screaming — someone was screaming, _why_ was someone screaming? — his hands were flying, his mind was throbbing, and Mycroft was suddenly gone. 

He shut his eyes. 

 

_Oatmeal colored sweaters, the scent of vanilla, coffee with no sugar, the adoration for Chinese takeout, that giggle, the sparkle in those blue eyes at any sign of danger, that hand grasping tight to that metal gun, smile, ocean blue, tan, blonde; solider, doctor, saint._

 

Upon his eyelids fluttering open, he hadn’t expected to see plates, a teapot, Ms. Hudson’s china tray, all shattered to pieces along the living room floor of 221B. Shards all thrown about, like a devastatingly, unfixable mosaic. He also hadn’t expected the roughness in his throat, the hoarseness in his tone, or the soreness of his vocal chords. 

He walked back over to his leather chair and reached for the violin, untouched and unmarked in all the commotion. Perfectly pristine — as usual. He sat once more and hugged the instrument to his chest, swallowing and staring blankly at the smashed remains of what had once been the inners of their kitchen cabinet. 

 

 _Their_ kitchen cabinet. 

 

Now it was only his.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> None of it mattered anymore, couldn’t they see?

> _Then we really have to go_

 

He rarely had guests. 

Molly had stopped by a few times, but when Sherlock had merely continued to stare at the tattered old armchair across from him, she’d felt as though she’d been intruding, leaving him behind with nothing but that ever-shiny violin and a fresh cup of tea.

Lestrade had been by a few times as well, but after the very first day, when the news had broke and he’d seen a side of Sherlock he never imagined witnessing, he’d begun to hover uncomfortably. He never quite knew what to say or do, what to address or mention or bring up in conversation. Frankly, his visits consisted of him striding confidently into 221B, saying hello, asking how things were, receiving no response, placing cold case files on the dining room table and leaving the flat with a solemn, and no longer confident, goodbye.

Mycroft remained unseen, but Sherlock didn’t doubt he was keeping a watchful eye. 

Ms. Hudson seemed to always be around, though he didn’t see her as much of a guest. She hoovered, and dusted, and brought him her best scones, of which he always left untouched. She tapped his legs and told him he was too skinny, ran a hand through his curls and told him to go have a wash, gave him hugs he hardly responded to, and made him dinner most days that he barely ate. 

None of it mattered anymore, couldn’t they see? Because _He_ did those things — _He_ told Sherlock when to eat, _He_ told him when he’d gone too long without sleep, _He_ cooked him meals, and made him breakfast, _He_ made him feel safe, _He_ made 221B Baker Street a home. It wasn’t a home without _Him_. It wasn’t anything. 

It was nothing.

 _Nothing_. 

He retreated to his mind palace most days but his efforts were useless — it was flooding. Shelves after shelves of information, drowning in vicious waves, seeping into memories, swarming through the past. He’d even spotted the haunting corpse of Moriarty, floating atop the waves of a dark, unforgivable ocean, Westwood suit soaked, hair no longer gelled in place, face no longer smirking; nothing could survive this — nothing — not even the consulting criminal himself. The water within his mind was slowing destroying every last thing that made up Sherlock’s storage space, his hard drive. 

 _He_ wasn’t even in there. Sherlock just wanted to see _Him_ again.

Just once. 

Just once more. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Imagine the headlines. The great Sherlock Holmes beat, drowns in own bath,” John scoffed from beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: suicide attempt

 

> _You've been the only thing that's right_  

 

He hadn’t meant to. Or maybe he had. But somehow he had found himself in the bath. And somehow, _somehow_ , he had found himself eager to remain beneath the water. 

Stupid body, stupid survival instincts, stupid oxygen, stupid breathing. It was all stupid, all of it. 

He’d merely been soaking his hair, shutting his eyes and listening to the silence that whirled beneath the layer of water surrounding him, when it dawned on him that he didn’t want to come up for breath, he didn’t want to see the bathroom light once more, or hear the consistent whirring of Ms. Hudson hoovering downstairs. He didn’t want to inhale or exhale, he didn’t want to open his eyes, he didn’t want to see, or hear, or feel anything ever again.

All he wanted was numbness, all he wanted was _black_. 

He opened his eyes beneath the water, the soapy mixture stinging as he did; he felt the outer edges of his rib cage attempting to expand, attempting to aid him in taking a breath, but he held tight to his position at the bottom of the bath until he couldn’t manage to do so any further, human anatomy, _science_ , getting the better of him as he was suddenly propelled to the top. He gasped as the water fell from his curls, his ears, his eyelashes, his shoulders, facing the white wall of the other end of the tub and panting exhaustedly, eyes shut once more, squeezed tightly in an attempt to still his heaving.

 

“Idiot,” He heard from the side of the tub. 

 

 _That_ voice, _His_ voice, the voice that sang to him in dreams and called out to him in nightmares — the voice that had been his life, that he had wanted to hold onto forever should he have been allowed. He turned, chest bobbing with the desperate need for air, and froze, eyes blankly staring at what couldn’t possibly be real, of what could only be described as a hallucination — right? There _He_ was, in that silly navy cardigan, that checkered black shirt beneath, clad in _His_ favorite jeans and those somewhat pricey brown Oxford’s. 

 

Sherlock swallowed, bottom lip blue and quivering, “ _John_?” 

 

“Sherlock,” John responded, tone of voice sharp, reprimanding, causing Sherlock to flinch with the effect of it all, his heart racing as the man sitting atop the sink’s counter glared directly through him, “Care to explain to me why you nearly bloody drowned in the damned tub?”

Sherlock couldn’t speak, aside from a weak, shaky, “It’s you.” 

“Course, it is,” John leaped off of the cabinet, and Sherlock noted that his shoes made no sound as he hit the floor, “I’m the one who’s always getting you out of trouble, aren’t I?”

“I wasn’t in any trouble,” Sherlock muttered, eyes far too focused on the human being of whom really shouldn’t be standing, there, in front of him, in one solid form. 

 

John quirked a sad smile at that and swallowed, moving to sit atop the closed toilet seat, turning to face Sherlock and frowning, worry in his features, a question in his eyes. 

 

“Why am I here then?” 

 

He didn’t know why. For God’s sake, he didn’t know _why_. He didn’t know why _He_ , _John Watson_ , was in his bathroom, looking like himself, looking put together, looking alive, merely a few inches away, there — right _there_ — when a week ago Sherlock Holmes had been told, over the phone, that he no longer would be. 

Sherlock pushed his hair back, wet curls sliding away and off his forehead as he stared at his flatmate, his best friend, _Him_.  

 

“John,” He breathed again, just because he could, chest rising and falling rapidly where he sat against the cool porcelain, lips quivering, fingers trembling in the lukewarm bath water. 

The very man looked down at his shoes, inhaled sharply and then looked back up, ocean blue eyes sharp and serious, body tense, elbows resting on his knees as he leaned closer to Sherlock’s rigid, shocked position in the tub. 

“Why’d you do that?” He snapped, expression pressed and breath shaky.

Sherlock shook his head minutely, throat bobbing as he swallowed, heart clenching as he stared up into those eyes — those eyes they’d told him were gone, shut forever. 

 

“Sherlock,” that voice said again, and hell, it was almost angelic. 

 

“I don't know,” he whispered, looking down at the water surrounding him, breath finally evening out as he stared at the bottom of the off-white tub, at his pruned fingers, at his practically concaving stomach. But didn’t he? Didn’t he know why? He hadn’t wanted to continue; he hadn’t wanted to wake up without Him there, to yell about the eyeballs in the microwave or the fingers in the fridge, to remind him to take care of himself, to eat and catch a few hours of shuteye, or remember to hydrate after a taxing case. He didn’t want a life without precisely that — so why not leave it? 

 

“Imagine the headlines. The great Sherlock Holmes beat, drowns in own bath,” John scoffed from beside him.

Sherlock didn’t look up. He could almost feel the disappointment in that voice, in that tone. God, he’d missed it. He’d missed that reprimanding pitch, that laugh of rage, those biting remarks. 

 

“Don't want it,” Sherlock muttered, the warmth in his chest numbing, his eyes prickling with eager, unshed signs of grief — stupid, bloody emotions that Sherlock Holmes refused to allow John to see. He grabbed his legs and quickly, desperately, brought his knees up to his chest, hugging them close and breathing deeply, enjoying the feeling, for once, of John’s eyes bearing into the back of his neck. 

“Don’t want what?” John asked, sounding closer — much closer. 

“This. What I have.”

“And what’s that? What do you have?” John whispered, voice breaking with raw emotion, so much so that Sherlock could see the sadness in his features without even turning to look. 

 

The curly-haired consulting detective’s breath caught in his throat, “ _Nothing_.”

When he received no response, he swallowed and shut his eyes for a moment, repeating, softly, “I have nothing.”

 

And he was, in fact, correct. Because when he turned back around, glancing at the toilet seat where John had been sitting, the army doctor was gone. 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything was grey. It seemed John had taken color with him too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait on this one. x

> _In all I've done_

John Hamish Watson’s burial was nothing short of pathetic. Sherlock despised it, he despised being there, and he despised the pink and yellow bouquet of flowers sitting above that box, a box that held a gift so very dear to Sherlock, he could hardly bear to watch it shoved into a dirty hole that had been forged through the pitiful Earth. 

He drowned out the words of the priest. 

When he turned to his left, he saw Harriet crying, bags beneath her red-rimmed eyes, far from sober, nose scarlet and hair greasy. Unkempt. Because that was John’s job. He was supposed to take care of them all. He was supposed to call Harry and be sure she kept on the mend, he was supposed to ask her how she was doing, push her to go out and meet women, invite her over for tea. 

Harry met his eyes. Sherlock looked away from her. 

He, instead, glanced over at Lestrade — his head was down, silver hair looking far too ironically grey, vision watery, raw emotion pulling at the edge of his lips, his stubbled chin wrinkling with an effort to keep the tears at bay. Sally Donavon was silent beside him, expression pained, sights fixed atop the flowers, a frown forcing her brows forward, a permanent grimace setting into her features. 

He let his eyes drift. 

Ms Hudson; weeping in her black dress, surely heartbroken, a fragile looking Molly Hooper gripping her thin hand, the old woman standing at the second burial she’d had to attend out of the two of them, except John — _well._  John wasn’t coming back. 

Some of John’s old army mates are there as well, all standing tall, saluting the now boxed in form of a man they’d come to look up to. Even Sarah Sawyer is there, dabbing at her eyes, sniffling alongside them, shaking her head as though she was somehow still in utter denial. 

It seemed everyone was present, as it should be, but Sherlock couldn't help but feel outraged, resisting the urge to yell at each and everyone of them about how they never did anything of value to deserve John Watson — himself included. He wanted to grab those flowers and squish them beneath his black dress shoes, rip off the fucking tie Mycroft had insisted on him wearing — John would have laughed at him, told him it looked unnatural — and smash the head of the tombstone with a steel hammer, watch as it crumbled to bits, a visual representation of his hardly beating heart. He wanted to punch the man spouting nonsense about a God, tell him it didn’t matter, ask him where his precious God was when John was met with the full, unforgiving weight of a drunk driver’s lorry. 

But he did none of those things. He merely stood, still, frozen, expression blank and features dormant, a numbness beginning to set in that he couldn't explain with words if he was bloody well forced to. 

Afterward, once all had been said and done, it started to rain. Umbrellas scattered about the cemetery as each guest made their way towards their vehicles, taxis, methods of transportation. He felt Lestrade pat him on the damp form of his suit clad back, felt Ms. Hudson squeeze his hand as she slowly sauntered off, felt Molly lightly kiss his cheek, until he was left alone, standing there, glaring at the golden letters engraved into that simple slab of stone. 

“Best get home,” Mycroft’s voice rumbled from his side and he didn’t even take the time to berate himself for not noticing his brother’s presence. 

Sherlock didn’t answer. Everything was grey. It seemed John had taken color with him too. 

“Sherlock.”

He didn’t move. Instead, he stood and felt the droplets of water slide from the curls of his hair to the bridge of his nose and suddenly he was thanking Mother Nature for its impromptu drizzle, tears vanishing quite effectively with the outlook of rain. 

He waited and waited. Mycroft said nothing more — he simply lifted that always-present umbrella over the both of their heads and stood beside his little brother as thunder rumbled within the clouds and lightning shattered the sky.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now his sanity was buried six feet deep beneath sand, and dirt and bits of grass, all tangled up in roots, wiry wooden ropes holding his coffin to the Earth, suffocating the entirety of who he was and who he would never be again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: drug use

 

> _And I can barely look at you..._

Sherlock doesn’t take anymore cases.

He deletes his website, doesn’t answer the door to anyone, and tosses the leftover cold case files from Lestrade’s weekly visits into the kitchen’s silverware drawer. He spends each and every moment of his time sitting in his black chair, cradling his violin, and thinking about how real John looked, sitting atop the cold surface of his bathroom counter.

Perhaps he was losing it — they had all predicted it anyway, everyone he’d ever known; they’d all said he’d go mad, psychotic, lose the part of his brain that told him just enough to help keep him on his feet. He supposed it was alright now, thought, that he’d lost the plot, let the monkey’s loose — John Watson had been his sanity after all. And now his sanity was buried six feet deep beneath sand, and dirt and bits of grass, all tangled up in roots, wiry wooden ropes holding his coffin to the Earth, suffocating the entirety of who he was and who he would never be again. 

Sherlock _ached_. 

And it was because of his aching that he stormed into his bedroom at a frantic pace, curls tumbling this way and that in their messy state, trembling hands removing the slightly loose plank of wood from his floor, and ripping out the stocked baggy from its thorough hiding place. 

And somehow, after some fiddling of the tourniquet and the awfully irritating inaccuracy of his shaking fingers, Sherlock was blissfully, and _finally_ , _high_. He shut his eyes.

He was right on the edge, head lolling to the side, swimming in a bit more than his usual dose but the perfect amount to wash away the grief that pulled at his features, at his heart, at his very soul. One half of his brain was floating away, allowing each and every ache to flow downstream for a little while, whilst the other side mocked and jabbed a finger at him, giggling, high-pitched and nauseating — _silly Sherlock, silly Sherlock. Wanting to numb your numbness. Bit redundant, that, innit?_

“Under your floorboards,” a voice said, “Should've known.” 

He inhaled sharply and opened his eyes, finding himself face to face, once more, with John Watson, all golden featured, dark blue eyed, and short bodied, sat firmly in his red chair — where he _belonged_ , where he should never leave, _no no no_. _Don’t leave, John_. 

“All this time,” John spat, and Sherlock, a bit slow _considering_ , only _just_ took note of the pure, unadulterated _rage_ plastered to that normally warm, kind, and gentle expression. _John was angry, John was angry, but it didn’t matter because John was here and that was the important thing._ Sherlock would give up his very _entirety_ to be lectured just one more time by the man appearing so very real before him and yet, had to be, a figment of Sherlock’s deluded, death-seeking imagination. “Right under my nose.” 

Sherlock chuckled. 

“Selfish _dick_ ,” John snapped, eyes flashing dangerously, brows drawn forwards, scowling, sneering, glaring, practically snarling at Sherlock’s lopsided position on his leather chair, limbs lifeless, eyes half open, lips parted. 

It was silent for a good while, Sherlock simply staring blankly, taking in all that he could, John Watson, still in that same outfit, there and not there, existent and non-existent, visible and so very invisible it shook Sherlock to his very core. He swallowed the knot in his throat and gathered his words, those sweet, sweet chemicals sinking further into his veins. 

“I wore a tie to your burial,” Sherlock slurred, arching a lazy brow and sighing thickly. 

John scoffed and shook his head, “Bit unnatural, that.” 

Sherlock’s chest warmed and he snorted, nodding his head the best he could in his state, and humming eerily to himself, throat rumbling out the tune of a song he hadn’t even recalled remembering. _Sing me to sleep. Sing me to sleep_.

The figment of his best friend gazed at him, “No more, yeah?” A finger was lifted, gesturing to the empty needle beside Sherlock’s foot, where it had slowly come to land as it slid from his lap, a metaphor, Sherlock supposed, for how quickly he’d thrown away his two years of being clean, of being _Sherlock_. But he wasn’t Sherlock anymore anyhow, not without John Watson. 

 _And then leave me alone_. 

He continued humming.

“Sherlock,” John persisted, “I mean it.” 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut; _don’t try to wake me in the morning_. He breathed, far too rapidly. He lifted a hand to his curls, gripped at them, pulled, yanked them outwards, gasped and groaned and shook and trembled and let his expression crumble, liquid emotion slipping from the corners of his eyes and down his cheeks, obvious and vulnerable and loathsome and his humming came to a grinding halt, didn’t continue until he blinked the tears away and spotted John’s empty chair. 

 _‘Cause I will be gone_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He ignored it, let his mind go blank, let his thoughts waste away, let his brain simply sit and ponder, his head whispering tauntingly to him through the black nothingness, informing him of his plans for later that evening — a needle and a conversation with the very compelling figment of his imagination.

 

 

> _But every single time I do_

Sherlock woke with a splitting headache, limbs numb and body buzzing with unease as he untangled himself from the leather clutches of his small, living room chair, blinking consciousness back into his sleep-deprived and drug-addled mind. He swayed unsteadily on his feet, inhaling sharply, glancing over towards the coffee table with mute confusion and narrowing his eyes at the small cup of tea sitting ominously on its wooden surface. It certainly hadn’t been his doing and it took a moment for his intoxicated thoughts to summarize the event as Ms. Hudson’s handiwork. With a long drawn-out sigh, he reached for it and lifted it to his pale lips, wincing at the hardly warm temperature but forcing it down anyway, throat parched and body desperately thirsty. He heard soft footsteps on the stairs outside his flat’s door and he braced himself for an entourage of noise and reprimanding retorts, expecting the small elderly woman to come waddling into 221b with an unforgiving sense of determination to both make him eat and force him into his bedroom for a good and proper bit of rest. 

But when the door opened and Molly Hooper stood in her oversized yellow jumper and her multicolored, and horribly patterned, trousers, Sherlock couldn’t keep from frowning, a brow arched with inward surprise, before he berated himself for not deducing the proper guest, gate and walking pace having been startlingly obvious. 

He took a better look at Molly, her hands at her sides, one gripping the side of her purse tightly, knuckles white — _nervous, mindful, uncertain_ — and the other clenching and unclenching, finger nails a pale shade of pink. He couldn’t, irritably so, deduce her motive for stopping by, her visits always having been brief and on Wednesday’s, moments of which she would knock gently and enter with a small smile and a one-sided conversation on her lips. 

“Sorry,” She squeaked quietly, “Ms. Hudson said you’d been napping.”

Sherlock blinked.

She fumbled with her purse some more, fingers twisting the small cat key chain attached to its zipper, “That is — I didn’t want to knock. And—and wake you.” 

The detective swallowed, throat protesting, scratchy and sore, and allowed himself a shrug, heading into the kitchen and sweeping over towards the fridge, eyes darting rapidly back and forth, landing on some of the few edible items that had managed to survive expiration. Wrapped leftovers tucked snugly in the front, within reasonable sight — Ms. Hudson _clearly_. _Always_ thinking about him. 

“So,” Molly’s mousy tone rose up from the living room, “your website.”

Sherlock froze, clearing his throat before grabbing the plate of pasta — _some sort, spaghetti or something noodle-y_ — and setting it down atop the kitchen counter, shoving a few beakers to the side with a huff. 

“What about it?” He flushed at the hoarseness of his voice, eyes fixating on everything but Molly, her nimble form standing shyly in his peripheral vision. 

“You took it down.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” She asked, a hint of desperation twisting her soft features. 

“Because,” He swallowed thickly before sniffing and lifting his nose upward in an act to appear petulant, shrugging a single shoulder and trying unsuccessfully to push the rising memories away from the surface and back under the water of his flooded mind palace, “nobody reads it anyway.” 

Something in Molly’s expression saddened even further and she turned away, moving to sit down atop the flat’s sofa, far from that particular red armchair Sherlock had shouted at her for sitting in the first time she’d paid him a visit. 

“How will people contact you with a case then?” She asked, hope titling her question’s tone as she watched him stick a fork into the cold dish of noodles. 

Sherlock let out a sigh, insults rising to the forefront of his mind, though he begrudgingly begged them to clear off — he didn’t _want_ to be mean to Molly. She was here. And that was more than he could say for others.

“They won’t,” He spat, glaring at the meal before him with distaste, before turning and shoving the plate back into his refrigerator, stomach pleading for him not to, but thoughts twisting him away from its contents.

“Oh,” He heard Molly murmur, the sound tinged lightly with both surprise and worry, before he saw her get back onto her feet and make her way toward him, kitten heels clip-clopping softly atop the tiled floor — a strangely comforting sound. He watched silently as she stepped around him and fetched the dish he’d roughly discarded, her lips quirking cautiously. 

“You’re supposed to heat it up, genius,” She teased carefully, patting him on the shoulder with a delicate hand before turning to the microwave, grabbing the handle and pulling — only to freeze, blink, and turn back to him with furrowed brows. “Do I _want_ to know what that used to be?” She questioned, gesturing to the conventional oven’s contents, tone not quite scolding but more so along the lines of exasperatedly amused.

“Probably not,” He shrugged, “It’s been there since —“

He froze, swallowing thickly and turning away, ducking his head to stare at his feet, jaw clenching, hands gripping the edge of the counter, as though trying desperately to steady himself, to steady the demolishing form of his reality — saying it aloud made it all the more real and he’d been avoiding doing so quite nicely. 

_Sherlock, you git, this one is worse than the eyeballs. You’re cleaning it. I refuse to touch that — whatever it is. And get rid of it before Ms. Hudson blows a bloody gasket._

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut.

Molly let out a soft gasp before she placed a soft, gentle palm on his wrist, the gesture soothing, though Sherlock would never admit it, her touch warm and careful, as though he may break into little pieces if she pushed to hard. 

“Tell you what,” Molly smiled comfortingly at him whilst he fixed his gaze on the floor, at her heeled shoes, at his own bare feet, “I’ll make you something fresh, yeah?” 

She patted his forearm before pushing the leftovers to the side and turning back to his refrigerator, chestnut brown hair swaying back and forth in its tightly pulled ponytail. 

Sherlock swallowed, eagerly trying to gather his thoughts, his mind replaying all the times _He_ had told him off for an experiment gone wrong, or simply his experiments in general — eyeballs in the sugar, toes lying in baggies behind cans of tomato soup, fingernails atop the counter. _Come on, lad, what could you possibly be testing that for? Sherlock, why the hell is my tea green when I didn’t make green tea? Sherlock Holmes, if I find one more body part in the cupboards, I swear to god._

He missed that voice terribly, the one that shook with frustration but burned with an underlying fondness, as though the things Sherlock did bothered him incredibly, and yet he wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ , possibly have it any other way. 

“Right,” He glanced upward to see Molly pulling her phone from her back pocket with a small, shy smile his way, a shoulder lifting as she shrugged, “I’ll order you takeout.” 

“Why are you here?” Sherlock snapped suddenly, and then winced — he hadn’t meant to sound so very harsh, his tone sharp and cold, a mask of ice laced beneath his words. However, from Molly’s unchanged expression, she clearly saw straight through him, the way he’d grimaced in regret, his brows furrowing, his mouth twitching downwards, his eyes darting carefully over her features. 

“Wanted to check in on you,” She said, quietly, soft and reassuring, “I know the last few days have been terribly difficult for me and I can’t imagine how you’re —“

Sherlock frowned as he watched her mentally stop herself, her throat bobbing as she swallowing uneasily, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, uncertain and timid. 

“How,” She began again, clearing her throat, “How are you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinked, the skin between his brows creasing in confusion, his body straightening a bit with the question, before he turned away and took off out of the kitchen, blue dressing gown flying upwards behind him, heading back into the living room and grabbing desperately for a cigarette, a pack and a lighter thrown arbitrarily on the surface of his coffee table. He lifted the fag to his lips with shaking fingers and quickly lit the end, the first drag like a miracle, hands and body trembling as smoke danced out of his mouth when he exhaled. 

He heard Molly ordering takeaway on her mobile, quick and efficient, still determined to get something nutritious in him, before she reappeared in the living room, watching him cautiously from where he stood, glaring out the window, her hands playing with the hem of her large sweater. 

“Look,” She stated, voice hushed and sincere, “It’s okay to not be okay, yeah?” 

Sherlock didn’t say anything. 

Molly dropped her gaze and chewed on her bottom lip, as though desperately looking for something to say, some way to help — why did she bother? _No one could help,_ Sherlock growled internally, _nothing could possibly_ help. _Nothing_. 

Nothing.

“No one saw this coming,” Molly whimpered, her voice trembling a bit now as she spoke, and Sherlock quickly braced himself, his heart beginning to feel that familiar tug of dread, “It was an _accident_ , and it was _awful_ , and it’s okay to _grieve_ , Sherlock.”

The detective felt his fingers tapping anxiously against his thigh, body shivering, blood going cold with every word that left Molly’s mouth, heart hammering against its bodily prison. 

 _Stop, stop, stop._  

“And I just came by to tell you that I’m here; I’m only a phone call away, or a trip to the morgue, or a cab ride over,” She continued on, stumbling a bit over her words in her rush to get them out, “You need to talk to someone. Even if it’s not me. John would have —“

“ _Do_ _not_ finish that _sentence_ ,” Sherlock snarled, whirling to face her, eyes burning with the threat of tears, lips curling back in rage, cigarette forgotten between his two shaking fingers. 

Molly stared, wide-eyed and frozen, her fiddling hands stilling against her sweater. She took a deep breath, nodding her head and swallowing, ducking her head down and away, and before she could open her mouth to say one more inane word of comfort, Sherlock was whirling into motion.

“I don’t need _you_ ,” He growled at her, expression serious and cold, features dropping into an uncaring rage, “I don’t need you, or Mycroft, or Lestrade, or some bloody _therapist_. I don’t need to _talk_ , I don’t need any of it! All I need is —“

He froze, swallowed his next word, that name on his lips, and watched as Molly’s somewhat frightened expression broke into one of utter heartache, piteous and sympathetic, eyes running over the curves of his face, the broken form of his steadily deteriorating health, the exhaustion, hunger, and lack of proper hydration apparent, the state of his thoughts showing through on top of it all. 

“Oh, _Sherlock_ ,” Molly whispered, and, in an act of spontaneous comfort, lunged forward and hugged him carefully, arms wrapping around his back, hands clutching at his shoulders. 

Sherlock didn’t hug back, cigarette wilting away at his side, heart refusing to settle down, bitterness leaking from his eyes against his futile efforts to prevent it. He let Molly hug him, let her think she was helping, let her think her friendship was in some way consoling, her own quiet sniffling not unknown to Sherlock’s ears. 

He ignored it, let his mind go blank, let his thoughts waste away, let his brain simply sit and ponder, his head whispering tauntingly to him through the black nothingness, informing him of his plans for later that evening — a needle and a conversation with the very compelling figment of his imagination.

 _All I need is John._  


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Look, you either go through your life numb to every single good thing there is, or you live a little, meet amazing people, and suffer just a touch. I know I’d take the latter any day.”

> _I know we'll make it anywhere_

 

 

“I’m worried about you,” Ms. Hudson tutted for what had to have been the hundredth time, whilst she placed a steaming hot cup of tea on the coffee table beside Sherlock’s ramrod straight form.

He’d been sat in his leather, black chair the entirety of the day, his eyes trained on that singular red armchair, that cushioned sofa where John had been just a few days back, telling him off for his dangerous methods of forgetting. His fingers were trembling, itching for another hit, desperate to try again, to keep John around longer this time, to behave himself, to keep his head held high and on firm, to prove to John that he would be there, and continue to be there, whether this was all a demented figment of his imagination or an insanely surreal event in his reality.

“You’re practically skin and bones, Sherlock Holmes,” The elderly lady spat out, clad in her lavender blouse and dark magenta skirt, all frail limbs and dainty movements, standing before him with her hands on her hips,“and I will not stand for it.”

Sherlock didn’t speak; he lifted his head and glanced at her, frowning, before resuming his proper thinking position, listening to her sigh in frustration and scurry into the kitchen once more, dunking her hands into the sink and going about scrubbing a week old amount of dirty dishes. Her company was one he had no control over — she hurried in whenever she liked, regardless of what he was busy doing, declaring it her rightful act for the day, checking in to see if he was still functioning; she’d like to think she did it for him, making him eat, sleep, drink, but really it was to settle her own nerves, her own worries, her deep, dark, concerns for whether or not he was really, truly still alive — Sherlock saw it in the downturn of her fragile, pink lips, in the bags beneath her eyes, in the addition of several new wrinkles.

“I swear, Sherlock,” She prattled on, shaking her head and sounding far more resigned now as she placed the dishes back in their rightful cupboards, slamming them shut and moving closer to where he sat once more, “that big, old brain of yours would work _so much better_ if you just slept once in a while.”

He watched her wipe her hands on her skirt and saunter over to the flat door, her small hands slapping the handle angrily and her eyes fixing themselves on his silent position, glaring, burning through him, so much so he actually felt the smallest, shortest pang of shame — for making her worry, for working her so hard, for adding those extra wrinkles.

“You’d best _eat_ ,” She snapped, expression twisting in caution, in warning, “And drink your bloody tea, you _ninny_.”

With that, she slammed the flat’s front door, and Sherlock was left alone.

 

He stared at the spot she’d been only moments ago and swallowed the knot in his throat, heart hammering in his chest, mind thrumming with overuse. He closed his eyes, his mind palace rising, still flooded over, still ruined, still far too wet, and damp, and utterly unusable — he saw newspapers describing their many cases, he saw the apple, three letters carved into its skin, he saw his hat, spoiled and tattered atop the waves, too far gone to be wearable any longer.

Funny — how well the entirety of his view resembled his very life, how symbolic it all was. The dam that had kept him together, kept all his pieces afloat, kept his mind intact, had snapped and cracked and broken, broken completely, and now the entirety of his innermost thoughts were in shambles.

All because of John.

Sherlock opened his eyes, blinked, and reached for his phone.

 

 

To: Wiggins

4:39pm

 

_Need as much as you’ve got. -SH_

 

 

He took a deep breath, his eyes running up and over the chair before him, antique and faded, red shade losing contrast, losing vibrancy, Union Jack pillow left forgotten atop it, silent and still, unused, untouched, and so very familiar it made Sherlock’s heart clench and his blood run cold. Everything was a reminder, everything in 221b was telling of whom used to reside there, of whom Sherlock used to share his every space, every word, every movement with — John Watson was in the walls, in the floorboards, in the furniture and the stained carpet, and the cracked kitchen counter, the wooden kitchen table, the half-broken barstools.

Sherlock remembered reading a book once on the stages of grief and their idiotic affect on the human condition, on the mind and the body and the way one acts or goes about their new life. He remembers so distinctly, sitting in his chair, frowning at the text clad pages, scoffing at the descriptions, at the surreality of it all, the way they spoke as if everyone experienced grief the same, as though everyone suffered through the same five stages. John had been there, across from him, his worn hands gripping tight to a mystery novel, one of those stupid crime stories that end in triumph and romance.

“Denial?” Sherlock had spat out in disgust, shaking his head and gazing at John with arched brows. “How can you _deny_ one’s death? It’s simple fact.”

John had blinked, cleared his throat in that way he always did, the way that said he was both irritated and yet bewildered, and pursed his lips, shrugging a solid, pajama clad shoulder, “Sometimes it’s too unreal for people to grasp.”

“Moronic,” Sherlock had stated, plain and simply, slapping the book closed with both hands and lifting himself up from his small, leather chair, leaving the novel behind and strolling over to where he’d left his violin, tucked away in its case, beside the window sill.

John had laughed, the laugh that said, _‘that was offensive and enormously cruel’,_ but kept his eyes on the book in his hands as he opened his mouth to speak once more, “It’s really not.” 

Sherlock had turned and shaken his head, lifting the violin out of its home and plucking a few errant strings, “It’s all a nonsensical display of human sentiment that if not having existed in the first place wouldn’t have even brought on any sort of grief at all.”

John had froze, lifted his head, and stared directly at Sherlock, where he stood beside the window, “So, you’re saying, don’t feel in the first place and you won’t have anything to worry about, yeah?”

Sherlock had confirmed the answer to his question with a solid nod of his head.

He’d heard John scoff, his back now turned to the army doctor sat in his little, red armchair.

“That’s absolutely shite.”

Sherlock had whirled back around and titled his head, brows furrowed, eyes narrowed, lips drawn down in a pout, “It is not.”

John was smirking, “Yes, it bloody is, you _git_.” The short, blonde blogger had then sighed and moved his mystery novel to the side, his hands folding in his lap as he leaned back and focused onto Sherlock’s irritably confused figure, a bright silhouette in contrast to the dark, night sky that could be seen through the thin class behind him.

“Look, death and grief and all that, yeah. It’s bloody awful. But it’s well worth it for the _good_ a person can bring you. For the happy bits and the funny bits — and all the bits in between.”

Sherlock had frowned, and went to speak, a response on his lips, but John quickly lifted his hand and continued.

“Look, you either go through your life numb to every single good thing there is, or you live a little, meet amazing people, and suffer just a touch. I know I’d take the latter any day.”

Sherlock remembered staring down at the ground in thought, blinking away the cloudiness, imagining a world without John’s laugh, or John’s praise, or John’s silly, really _not funny_ jokes.

“And sure,” John went on, “afterwards is tough. Enormously tough. But you move on. And you meet another person that brings more light to your life. It’s one big cycle, Sherlock. And it’s worth being a part of.”

“I understand,” Sherlock had nodded, and forced a small smile, glancing up at John, their eyes meeting, a kaleidoscope of green and silver and blue coming face to face with a swarming, stormy, navy sea. 

John had bobbed his head, beamed at his flatmate, and grabbed for his book again.

 

 

Sherlock was shaken out of his thoughts by the vibration of his phone, the soft buzz pulling him from a memory he both longed to remember simply to hear John’s voice, and yet despised to think of; the way he’d reacted, the way he’d been so very out of his depth to judge and yet he had anyway.

 

 

From: Bill Wiggins

4:45pm

 

_On it. But, portion control, yeah mate?_

 

 

Turns out Sherlock really didn’t understand.

_But you move on._

_No_ , he thought, _you don't. Not at all._


End file.
